


Wounded

by Jaybeefoxy



Series: Flufftober Prompts 2020 [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Do Not Translate, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Flufftober 2020, M/M, Mystrade fluff, You do not have permission to post to another site, a kitten - Freeform, mystrade, the boys are adopting strays again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:55:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26824762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaybeefoxy/pseuds/Jaybeefoxy
Summary: It's Mycroft's turn to find a stray.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Series: Flufftober Prompts 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1950532
Comments: 12
Kudos: 98





	Wounded

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PureBatWings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PureBatWings/gifts).



> Day four of Flufftober 2020
> 
> This was perhaps unwittingly given to me from a lovely comment on 'In the Shadows' from PureBatWings, who wrote "maybe they can add a black cat named Alan in honor of Rickman who died the same week as Bowie. Two great talents, much missed." Thank you, darling. This is the result.

If not for his perpetual attention to detail, Mycroft might have missed the bedraggled bundle of fur sheltering from the frankly terrible weather under his car. That would have been an utter disaster, considering how close the creature was to his back wheel. He shuddered at the near miss and reached down, grasping the tiny animal by the scruff. He had only seen it because his eyes were drawn by the bright gleam of the street lights captured by the creature’s eyes. It hung in his grasp, defeat etched into every line of its little body. Mycroft sighed. It turned its amber eyes on him and mewed.

"Gregory? Could I procure some assistance please? A towel is required, urgently." 

Bowie chose that moment to come barrelling into the hall, intent on greeting his caretaker with the boundless enthusiasm that had not dimmed since he had arrived a few months ago. Greg wasn't far behind.

"You okay, love? You got drenched out there?"

"Not I, my dear," Mycroft said, holding out the small creature in his hands.

"Another one?" Greg took it from him, bundling it into the towel and rubbing gently.

"This is becoming a habit. Where did this one come from?"

"Sheltering under my car. I might have run it over had I not been vigilant."

Greg winced. "Glad you saw him then." He peered between the folds of towelling and the bright eyes returned the stare. "Poor little chap," Greg murmured. "He can't be very old. And he's been hurt, he's bleeding…" Spots of blood were soaking onto the towel. “ **Wounded** in action, eh, mate?”

"Lord, here we go again." Mycroft retrieved his phone and called his vet again for the second time in six months.

“Alan,” Greg said, as they waited for Luke to arrive.

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft glanced at his husband as they sat at the kitchen table, steaming teas in front of them and the kitten bundled in a nest of towel and blanket in the center of the tabletop. Bowie insisted on standing with his forepaws on the table and his nose as close to the kitten as he was allowed. 

“His name. We should call him Alan.”

“Why Alan?”

“After Mr Rickman. He died a few days after Bowie.”

“Appropriate,” Mycroft agreed. “Although this one is very much alive. You wish to keep this one too, hm?”

“Well, it’s like someone is trying to tell us something. They found us for a reason, Myc.”

“Well, assuming the fates are in our favour and he isn’t chipped or claimed, I don’t see why not. At least then we will have one of each,” Mycroft observed. “However, I think perhaps we shouldn’t make a habit of this…”

"He is a she," Luke declared, looking over their newest houseguest. "Looks like she's been in a fight, but she's not badly injured. Looks like just a few scratches. She's wet, tired, hungry…" he glanced at the two men and grinned. "What is it with you two? This is becoming a habit." 

"My words exactly," Greg said and the kitten mewed it's agreement. 

"Not chipped either," Luke added, having swiped a portable reader across her small body. "I'll flag her with the local shelters, but if nobody comes looking for a black kitten around Westminster, then I'd say she's yours."

Injuries cleaned, antibiotics administered just in case of infection, the kitten fell asleep on Mycroft's lap. Greg dashed out to the local supermarket to see if they had kitten food, cat milk and a litter tray, among other sundries, and left Bowie on guard, his nose on Mycroft's lap. 

Greg wasn't gone long but Mycroft was heartily glad when his husband returned.

"Thank God, I'm rather desperate for a pee," he confessed, as Greg took the bundle carefully from his knee.

"I'm sure you could have put her down, love," Greg said with a smile.

"I felt as though I would be abandoning my post," Mycroft said before disappearing into the hall. Greg shook his head, and took the bundle of kitten and blanket back into the kitchen and set her on the table again.

"Well, kid, at least you're drying out. Here, got you something to eat." Luke had established the kitten's age as being around ten weeks, probably weaned, but perhaps not litter trained. Mycroft had winced a little uncertainly at the possibilities but obviously decided not to comment. Holding the kitten towards the saucer on the table, she stirred in his hands, stretching for the food. A small pink tongue extended to lap at the offering, enthusiasm gradually growing. She was a tatty little example of cathood, but she had determination. She chirped, then mewed, high pitched and demanding. Greg offered some food, a soft shred of meat paste which would have passed for pate without much trouble. He briefly considered how he might play a practical joke on Sherlock by offering cat food instead of pate, but abandoned it. The idiot had probably already tried eating it. The kitten buried her face in the stuff and almost inhaled it. Finally, belly rounded and full, she keeled over again and fell asleep. 

"How is she?" Mycroft enquired, on his return.

"Stuffed herself and fell asleep again," Greg said, stroking the little skull between her ears. "What should we call her then?” he asked. “I guess Alan isn’t right for a girl. She reminds me of Anthea…”

“I doubt my assistant would thank you for the analogy,” Mycroft said with a wry smile. "How about Alana? It is, after all, the feminine form of Alan."

Greg considered. "Now why didn’t I think of that? My nieces had some books when they were younger all about a knight who was a girl, they were always wanting me to read to them. The character's name was Alana. This one's a fighter too, so it seems like a good match." He scooped the kitten up and laid her on the side of Bowie's bed, for want of anywhere else to place her. The dog immediately curled up protectively around her. 

"Will you look at that," Greg said, mildly surprised. 

"It seems our newcomer has an advocate."

"Let's not take on any more strays though," Greg suggested. "Otherwise we'll need a bigger house."

"Alas, your track record for adopting strays has already been established, Gregory," Mycroft observed. "After all, you did take in my brother all those years ago."

Greg laughed. "Well, look how that turned out. If these two thrive as well as he did, then my work here is done." 

**Author's Note:**

> The books Greg references with lady knight, Sir Alana of Trebond and Olau, are The Song of the Lioness Quartet, by Tamora Pierce.


End file.
